Greetings, Austen Friends! I hope October has been as lovely for you as it’s been for me. You should see the trees around my house: flaming reds, sunset oranges, lemon yellows…I find myself wanting to spend all my time taking walks and staring up at trees.
However, I do occasionally have to teach…and I get to write! Here’s Part II of “Dispelling the Gloom,” my response to the “Which Witch: Magic and Malevolence in Austen” theme for the month. (You can find Part I here.)
I had planned to end the story after two parts, but Wickham and Darcy wouldn’t stop talking! (Wickham especially…he’s such a blabbermouth.) Seriously, as this post is over 3,000 words long, I thought I’d better cap it and save the ending for the final week of October. In that post, Elizabeth and Darcy are doing most of the talking…so who knows how long it will be!
As always, thank you! Thank you for your patience, thank you for reading, and thank you for any comments you’d like to share.
Here’s a quick reminder of what occurred in Part I, in case you read it but have forgotten (or haven’t read it and don’t have time to go back to Part I): On a foggy morning, several weeks after the Netherfield Ball, Elizabeth finds herself at the edge of a clearing between Longbourn and Netherfield. To her great surprise, she sees Mr. Darcy, who should be in London. He seems strangely forlorn. To her even greater surprise, Wickham marches into the clearing, far too full of himself for Elizabeth’s taste. To her greatest surprise of all, neither of the men can see Elizabeth. There’s something strange about her cloak…
Hope you enjoy!
Dispelling the Gloom, Part II
When revelation stumbles over the threshold of our hearts, disordering our tidy beliefs and leaving a wreckage of assumptions in its wake, should not fate bestow upon us a compensatory transformation? Should not the metamorphosis occurring within reveal itself in a flash of beauty and brilliance without?
Perhaps—but no such magic found Elizabeth in the moments following her epiphany.
Had Darcy and Wickham been able to see her—and it was clear to her now that they could not—they would have observed no glow of understanding on alabaster cheeks, no fiery light of wisdom shining from a pair of fine eyes. No, they would have seen her mouth hanging open as she stared, goggle-eyed, at the scene unfolding before her.
Wickham approached Darcy with a swagger that belied all his past behavior. Once, he had claimed to be avoiding an unseemly conflict; now, he seemed to be courting it. Everything in his bearing and tone suggested a man who had come not to reason or defend but to provoke and attack.
“You had better have come alone,” Wickham said, crossing his arms.
Elizabeth stared at Darcy’s back, ramrod straight as if he sat not on a rock at the edge of a meadow but in a very fine chair behind his study desk. She wondered that he allowed Wickham to loom over him. Why did he not stand?
Seconds passed, then a full minute. Would he lash out? Lunge forward?
He continued to sit, silent and still.
Wickham shifted uneasily on his feet. “Well? Are you not going to say something?”
Darcy’s response: the barest of movements, the slightest angling of his head.
She wished she could see his countenance, but it was Wickham who faced her, Wickham whose cheeks colored, then paled, Wickham who stumbled back a step as if he had seen something dark and dreadful in Darcy’s expression.
“Recall,” said Wickham, a tremor in his voice, “why you are here.”
Again, no sound, no words, and Elizabeth wondered if Darcy had discovered his own form of magic—not invisibility, but silence.
“When I learned you had returned to Hertfordshire, I supposed you had seen reason.” Wickham spoke quickly, as if he expected interruption from this man who had said not a word. “I supposed you wanted, at any cost, to protect your sister’s reputation.”
Elizabeth gasped, and Darcy abandoned his stillness to turn and look in her direction.
“I told you to bring no one!” Wickham cried, stumbling back another step. “Who is it? Bingley? Your cousin?”
Darcy continued staring into the fog. When his gaze passed over her, she thought, What if?—and he paused, eyes narrowing. Her breath caught, and she huddled further into her cloak. No, she thought quickly, no, you cannot see me.
He sighed and turned back to Wickham.
“It’s your cousin, isn’t it?” Wickham seemed poised to run.
“If it was Richard,” said Darcy, his voice low and hoarse, “there would already be a bullet lodged in your chest.”
Now it was Wickham who looked out into the fog, his eyes scanning. He passed over her without pause. “You had better be damned certain there is no one else here. I told you—”
“Yes, yes,” said Darcy, rising at last. “You told me to come alone—and I listened. Do you suppose, George, I would bring a witness to my own humiliation?”
Wickham considered this for a moment, then laughed.
(If only that laugh had been a cackle or a guffaw, a garish and grating sound! Alas, it was the same melodious laugh that had thoroughly enchanted her once—a laugh that, even now, lulled her into doubting her intuition.)
“Poor Darcy!” Wickham’s laughter settled into a smile. “Now you must listen to me.”
For a long moment, Darcy said nothing, and Elizabeth wondered if he would again take refuge in silence. Then, all at once, his shoulders sagged. He half turned from Wickham, his taut profile now visible to her. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I suppose I must.”
How was it that Darcy, forlorn and defeated, appeared to be the stronger of the two? Wickham, grinning and triumphant, seemed but a shell of himself, his hairline cracks and hollow innards clearly visible when inspected under the glare of his own exultation.
“What do you want this time, George?”
“Stop calling me George, as if I’m a boy!”
“Is that all you would ask of me? Well then, Wickham—”
“Watch yourself, Darcy. You’re in no position to be clever now. You certainly weren’t clever when you sent dearest Georgi away to Ramsgate with only Mrs. Younge for a companion.”
Elizabeth saw how Darcy balled his hands into fists, how he leaned forward, how he was a mere moment from pouncing.
Wickham, too, must have seen this, for he said, “Come a step nearer—and I will tell everyone you know how sweet, innocent Georgiana spent an entire day—and much of the night, too—alone with me.”
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her mouth—but too late. A muted cry escaped her lips.
Darcy turned and looked, but Wickham only laughed. “I believe you’re more frightened of being overheard than I am. Think of the sounds your friends will make when they hear the news; it will be a great deal more shocking than the cries of an owl or a hawk.”
“Anyone who chooses to believe your lies over my sister’s word—” began Darcy.
“Ah, but there’s the rub,” said Wickham, pulling a bundle of folded papers from his coat pocket. “Surely you don’t think the letter I sent you was the only letter she sent me during our far-too-brief courtship? I have enough proof of her indiscretions to make your friends believe the very worst.”
“I will ask you again, George: what do you want from me?”
“I told you to call me Wickham! I ought to make you pay for your insolence.”
“You will make me pay no matter what,” Darcy retorted. “I have come back to Hertfordshire to hear your threats, and now I have listened to your lies. So tell me what you want, or leave me in peace.”
“Brave words from a man whose sister is about to become a pariah. How will it feel, I wonder, to be cut by the people you considered your friends? Ah, never mind,” said Wickham, his laugh no longer lyrical but bitter and hard. “I know exactly how that feels.”
“Do not compare your choices to my sister’s. She acted in good faith, whereas you lied and manipulated to gain her dowry.”
“You and she may have the luxury of your morals, Darcy, but I was not born with a fortune!”
“No, but you had a thousand pounds from my father, and then another three thousand in lieu of the preferment he promised if you were to take orders.”
Wickham snorted. “I wish I had taken orders. If I feel remorse for any of my past choices, Darcy, it’s that one, for now I am reduced to the penury of life as a militia officer. Kympton would have provided a nice, steady income.”
“For God’s sake, George, Kympton is not an income; it is a parish. There are good people who live there, people who—”
“Damn you, Darcy! You stand there, so righteous, pretending to be the protector of your people, the preserver of your sister’s honor. Who do you think brought me to this moment, hmm? Who was the one to belittle me, day after day, when I was but a lad?”
Now it was Darcy who stumbled back a step. “I never—”
“No? Oh, come now, Darcy! Try to recall at least some of those instances when you made sure to put me in my place. ‘No, George,’” Wickham said, mimicking a young boy’s falsetto, ‘“that is not how you bow. This is how you bow. No, George, that is not how you speak respectfully to your father. This is how you speak. That is not how you play chess, how you ride a horse, how you conjugate a Latin verb.’”
“I was but a child, I….” Darcy shook his head. “I thought I was helping you. I—”
“Helping me? You were humiliating me! You were the master’s perfect son; I was only the steward’s boy—Pemberley’s own court jester.”
Darcy turned away from Wickham, his face now fully visible to Elizabeth. Was it the magic of her invisibility, or just her imagination, that allowed her to read hurt, disbelief, and sorrow in his features? She could at least be certain of his movements: fingers pressed to his temples, another shake of his head, and a long, shuddering exhalation.
Then, drawing himself to his full height, he turned back to Wickham. “You are right: I have been arrogant, conceited, and selfish.”
Once again, Elizabeth found herself gaping.
“You know as well as I that my father was the best of men,” Darcy continued quietly. “He gave me good principles, but I chose to follow them in pride and conceit.1 I am truly sorry, George.” He winced. “Excuse me—Wickham.”
Elizabeth glanced between both men, hardly knowing what to feel: pity or anger—and for whom? Her gaze settled on Wickham. He had gone completely still so that he looked, in that moment, like a statue shrouded in fog.
Then, slowly, his lips curved into a beautiful, terrible grin.
“Mister Wickham,” he said.
Darcy stiffened.
“What, back to silence?” Wickham’s grin grew wider. “Go on, then; say it: ‘I am truly sorry, Mister Wickham.’”
Darcy said nothing, and Wickham tapped the packet of letters against his hand.
“I am”—Darcy stopped, breathed, shuddered—“truly sorry, Mr. Wickham.”
Just hearing those low and rasping words caused Elizabeth pain; she could only imagine how much pain he must have felt when saying them.
“God, that alone is almost enough—almost, but not quite.” Wickham smiled. “I find myself troubled by a few of these Meryton merchants. Be a good lad, Fitz, and take care of the bills, won’t you?”
A pause, and then, “Very well. Give me a list of creditors—along with the letters.”
Wickham laughed. “Come now! Do you think I am stupid? No, do not answer. I see what you are about to say, but that is not the correct way to speak to your betters. I may just have to share these letters with the world if you do not mind your place now.”
“But then what will you do about your creditors? That is the difficulty with extortion, George: it requires someone to extort.”
“You pompous ass—”
“Yes, I believe we have already established that fact. Let us not pretend any further: I do not have the power to silence you, and you do not have the power to walk away. So precisely what do you want for the letters?”
“After you pay my creditors, I will exchange the letters for—hmm, let’s say 10,000 pounds, shall we?”
She could hear Darcy’s sharp inhalation.
“What? Does that seem an enormous sum, Fitz? Surely, the richest landowner in Derbyshire can afford it! Besides, it is only a third of what I would have had, if your sister had not been so weak-willed and run to you the moment you arrived in Ramsgate.”
“Now you are blaming her for your troubles? For God’s sake, George, you broke her heart!”
Wickham snorted. “Yes, it must have been so difficult for her to go without something she wanted; she usually gets whatever little amusement she requests.”
Darcy shook his head. “Why are you doing this?”
“I told you already: you have humiliated me enough, and I will no longer—”
“No, why are you doing this to her? She truly loved you.” Darcy sighed. “She loves you still.”
This admission belied Darcy’s claim that he had no power to silence Wickham. For several long beats, he seemed unable to utter a word.
Then, abruptly, he laughed. “She will recover. Young ladies like her always do. They go to their fine London fetes and dance their troubles away—well, if they are invited. Letters like these might get in the way of that, hmm?”
“Do you care nothing at all for Georgiana? Can you not see that, by making those letters public, you will harm her a great deal more than you would harm me?”
“I hardly think—”
“We are men, George; the busybodies of the ton may wag their fingers at us, but then they let us go about our way. They never let women forget; they will not let Georgiana forget.”
“Then that is what you must decide, Fitz: is your pride worth more than your sister’s happiness? If it is, then by all means, walk away, and I will get my own reward simply by watching you suffer. Oh, your reputation and your fortune may not be materially damaged by this scandal, but you will never forgive yourself for failing to protect your sister. And she will never forgive you, either. I will make sure she knows you had the chance to stop this—and that you chose yourself instead.”
Even as Wickham’s cruel words washed over her, Elizabeth stood frozen on the periphery, unable to muster any response except hot, silent tears. Somewhere in the back of her fog-addled brain, a voice was whispering, Do something, do something! But what? Throw off her cloak and reveal herself? Run home and tell her father? What good would any of this do for Darcy and his sister, who would still face extortion and humiliation?
She could think of no way to right this wrong, and so she continued to stand at the edge of the meadow, weeping.
Rather pathetic, yes? Well, perhaps—but have pity on Elizabeth: her sense of self had just been shattered. It would have been startling enough to realize that Mr. Wickham, a man she had greatly esteemed, possessed only the appearance of goodness. His supposed virtues had originated not from his actions but from her admiration of his countenance, voice, and manner.2
Add to this damning discovery the strange fact of her invisibility, and surely then we might appreciate her predicament. That she owed her new perspective to an old cloak she had never seen before this morning, when she had pulled it haphazardly from the deep recesses of her wardrobe, was almost too much to comprehend.
Yet these revelations were nothing to her realization that Mr. Darcy, a man she had been determined to hate, was in fact worthy of great respect. He was a rare creature: a man who apologized for his mistakes, a landowner who felt true concern for the people of his parish, and above all, a brother who dearly loved his sister. Had he been, at times, arrogant and disagreeable? Indeed. Was he guilty of persuading Mr. Bingley to leave Netherfield (and Jane)? Almost certainly. For these flaws, he deserved her vexation and perhaps even her ire—but never her loathing.
And so came the most terrifying revelation of all: she had chosen to despise another human being simply to placate her own vanity. To know that she was so quick to judge—so quick to hate—humbled and pained her. She could see in herself nothing of the person she had believed herself to be. She was, in that moment, truly invisible.
“Well?”
Wickham’s voice called her back to herself—or at least to her body. Her head ached from crying; her toes throbbed with cold; her shoulders felt stiff and sore. She looked at Darcy, his head bowed, and knew that he must feel a great deal worse.
Still, in spite of his unhappy circumstances, Darcy remained Darcy. (True, she did not know him nearly as well as she had once supposed, but Elizabeth knew enough to suspect that pride, in both the best and the worst sense, was one of his defining characteristics.) He refused to answer Wickham—at least on Wickham’s schedule.
“Well? Do you agree to my terms?” Wickham demanded.
Darcy opened his mouth—and then closed it. He paced a bit, then stopped. Eventually, he returned to the rock and settled himself onto the edge, gazing up at the sky. Had Elizabeth been less distraught, she might have laughed, yet it only hurt more to know that this man, whom she had spent months despising, in fact possessed a sense of humor, even in the darkest of hours.
Wickham hurried over, though he made sure to stop just out of arm’s reach. “Give me your answer!”
“In time.”
“What? You cannot be serious!”
“You are right about me: I will suffer if I do not do everything I can to protect my sister. But you are wrong about Georgiana. She would not blame me if I failed to secure those letters. She would blame herself—and then I would have failed her all the more.”
Wickham shook his head. “You are not going to pay me?”
“Perhaps—or perhaps not. I am still attempting to determine what is in her best interest.”
“If you truly care for her, Darcy, you will pay me—and quickly!”
“Quickly? That is the heart of the matter: will it be quick? I cannot help wondering: when will it stop, George? How do I know you will not come to me in a year or two with another so-called letter from Georgiana? Or worse yet, go to her when she has married someone else you can extort?”
For a moment, Wickham could only gape. Then, suddenly, he began to laugh.
“Oh, Fitz, I take back what I said earlier: you really are clever—far too clever for your own good. Do you know: this idea had not even crossed my mind before you raised it? Thank you, truly.” He slipped half the letters from the bundle and held them aloft in his other hand. “How about 10,000 for this half—and the others…well, we can decide at a later date?”
Darcy went utterly still.
“Miscalculated, didn’t you?” said Wickham. “No, Fitz, that is not how you checkmate your opponent. This is how you—”
Now he lashed out; now he lunged. He would have got him, too—if Wickham had not thrown one of the packets aside and pulled a small pistol from his pocket.
“What, didn’t bring your own?” Wickham asked, pointing the weapon directly at Darcy’s chest. He then laughed so loudly that he frightened a flock of ravens perched in the tree nearest Elizabeth. The birds took flight, cawing as they cut through the fog.
Perhaps it was the dreariness of the setting that inspired her: the birds, the fog, the cold, damp grass. Or maybe it was the sight and sound of Wickham, everything in his being reminding her of his unholy ability to combine cruelty and beauty.
Most likely, it was her contrary nature, for now that there was actual danger involved in this business, she felt extraordinarily clear-headed. Of course she could help: she was invisible.
Racing into the clearing, she swooped low and grabbed the letters Wickham had scattered when reaching for his pistol. She did not pause at the sound of Wickham’s panicked exclamation (“What the hell is that? The letters…floating…what…how…”), nor did she stop at the sound of Wickham’s grunt as Darcy knocked the pistol from his grasp. She focused only on chasing Wickham, who now turned to run from the clearing as fast as he could.
Darcy was faster; he caught Wickham by the shoulder, and though Wickham pulled free, he had been slowed enough for Elizabeth to lunge at him and pull the remaining letters from his grasp.
Both men cried out then, and Wickham fell to the ground, cursing. Some small part of her realized, of course, that she was the cause of their shock, but since most of her was focused on escaping the clearing without dropping the letters, she did not give herself time to think about how she must have appeared—or disappeared—to them.
She was only two steps into her escape, however, when she heard Darcy’s quiet exclamation: “Her ring!”
Now Elizabeth paused, glancing at her hand, the only part of her not covered by the cloak. Her silver ring glinted in the gloom.
Gulping, she looked up at him then, wondering: was it just her hand he could see? That seemed to be the case, for he gazed, wide-eyed, at what must have appeared to be a disembodied set of fingers.
It was an odd moment to think anything except, “Run, run, run!” for Wickham was now scrabbling to his feet. He would find the pistol, he would chase after her, he would…
Well, she did not want to think what he would do. She only wanted Darcy to realize that, as strange and incomprehensible as it might seem, she was there—and on his side.
Their eyes met, and he exhaled sharply.
“Who’s there? Who did you bring?” Wickham was running toward them now. “Goddamn you, Darcy, I will kill you!”
“Go,” Darcy said before turning and running toward the part of the clearing where Wickham had dropped the pistol.
Elizabeth would not go, at least not until she saw Darcy retrieve the pistol from the ground and point it at Wickham. Then she spun on her heel and sprinted toward Longbourn.
End of Part II
1 These words are almost the words Darcy says to Elizabeth in Chapter 58 (or Volume III, Chapter 16) of Pride and Prejudice. The exact quote is as follows: “I was given good principles…but left to follow them in pride and conceit.”
2 These words, “countenance, voice, and manner” are a direct quote from Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 36 (or Volume II, Chapter 13, depending on your edition).
Author’s Note: What do you think? If I were Darcy or Elizabeth, I’d be really tired and want to take a nap right now. In fact, that’s what I’m planning to do. But I promise: no naps for Elizabeth and Darcy! I’ll post the conclusion on Friday, October 28. Thanks for reading!
22 comments
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Quite the cliffhanger at the end of this section.
It certainly keeps the tension high and the wonder of what would happen next. I’m looking forward to finding out if Darcy recognized her and what will happen to Wickham.
Author
Thanks so much for reading and commenting, Gayle! It’s been so much fun for me to write and post a serial story!
Phew! I’m so glad that Elizabeth has finally realised the truth about both Darcy and Wickham. I’m absolutely delighted that she was able to help Darcy by retrieving the letters and allowing him to turn the tables on Wickham, I do hope the villain is punished accordingly.🤞🏻🤞🏻
Darcy obviously recognised the ring so I imagine he will either turn up at Longbourn or he will meet Elizabeth on one of her walks? 🥰🥰🥰 I can’t wait for the finale! I hope you realise that I’m wishing my life away Christina? At my age that’s a risky thing to do! 😉😉😂🤣
Author
Glynis, you’re hilarious! I’ve always believed that making wishes extends life! 😉 So glad you’re enjoying the story, and many thanks for taking the time to read and comment.
Christina, that was so exciting! I can’t wait to read more. Right on time for the fall/Halloween season. Thank you.
Author
Thank you so much, Toni! The Halloween reminder makes me picture Wickham getting a pumpkin thrown at him! That would be satisfying, I think — well, not for the pumpkin!
Many thanks for reading and commenting!
I loved this second part. I can just imagine Wickham’s (boo) and Darcy’s (yay!) confusion at sensing someone was there yet not seeing them. Good thing Darcy spotted the ring, and great thinking on Elizabeth’s part.
I’m already looking forward to Part III! Thanks, Christina. 😉
Author
Thanks so much for your kind words, Lucy, and especially for taking the time to read and comment! I’m looking forward to catching up on all the posts about the conference. I’ll bet it was amazing!
Hi.
I have enjoyed your story so far and looking forward to seeing Wickham get more than his just desserts. He’s such a slime bag.
There is one point that’s bothering me; in Part I Elizabeth wears her old black cape into the meadow and recalls last year when she lay down in the meadow and looked up at the fog. The cloak was covered with moisture and glistened with light. In Part II, she thinks she’s wearing a cape she has never seen before. So which is it? I hope you don’t mind my pointing this out.
I look forward to your final chapter.
Author
Jean, thank you so much for your thoughtful reply — and thank you especially for pointing out that inconsistency! This is the problem with me writing a serial story: I change my mind halfway through about something and then forget to go back and make the story consistent! Makes me think of those bloopers in movies when a character’s shirt gets stained with coffee, and then, in the next frame, the shirt is completely clean! I’ll have to ponder the best way to fix this…hmm, to have see the cloak before or not? If you have any thoughts, let me know, but no pressure. I’m very grateful for you pointing this out!
Thanks again for reading and commenting!
If her hand was uncovered and D could see the ring, why couldn’t both he and W see her face, or did the hood of the cloak act to make her face invisible too. Why just her hand.
Anxiously waiting for the next installment. Who knows, maybe Wickham will have more to say once he is vanquished!
Author
Caroline, this is an excellent question. My thinking — always fuzzy, granted — is that the cloak’s hood is large enough so that her face is behind the edge of the hood’s hem, if that makes sense. Granted, I don’t know exactly why the top of the cloak wouldn’t be hanging down over her forehead, making it difficult to see (sort of like my rain coat, which can keep my face dry, but always at the expense of clear vision) — but I’m going to say she’s wearing a bonnet beneath (just as I wear a baseball cap beneath my rain coat) to keep the material from falling into her face. So, my thinking is that the cloak doesn’t have to cover so much as enclose to keep her hidden, in which case the tips of her shoes would be the most likely to be visible if she’s not huddling inside her cloak. But I’m counting on the grass to keep those hidden! 🙂 I guess there’s a reason I don’t write much JAFF fantasy!
Many thanks for this thoughtful question!
It’s a good story. Darcy’s realized that was elizabeth?
I can’t wait to hear more
Author
Olga, thanks so much for taking the time to read and reply! Yes, Darcy has indeed realized it’s Elizabeth. Hope you enjoy the next part, which should come out on Friday, Oct 28.
Oh my God, what a suspense… I can only imagine Darcy recognizing her…
Thank you, Jessica! (And sorry for taking so long to reply.) Yes, I think poor Darcy has had a really tough morning….too many emotions at once! 😉
Thanks for the atmospheric descriptions. I wonder what Darcy can see of her, besides the ring, more than George can it seems? I don’t often read magical tales, but by the time I realized it was supernatural I was already absorbed in Lizzy’s discoveries. Magic is vaguely scary (which is why I don’t often read it, cluck cluck cluck) but compared to that creepy child molester, magic feels warm and fuzzy.
Author
Hi, JoEllen! I’m grateful you gave this story a try, in spite of the supernatural overtones! I hear you on finding certain kinds of supernatural too creepy to bear, though. Horror is a tough genre for me, for example …definitely too scared for that! But I love fantasies that push the boundaries of reality while also celebrating some of our better qualities as humans. Thanks again for reading!
That was a strong part II.
I particularly liked the chess play/dialogue between Wickham and Darcy. It actually felt like that: “move, set timer, move” or like a fencing match where the reply is immediate and quick.
I absolutely loved that Darcy betrayed his weak spot–these things do happen when one thinks aloud or analyzes the situation in front of his opponent. 😉
I wasn’t shocked at all at Elizabeth’s reaction. After the following shocks she received…
The analysis of her behavior though had a “breaking the fourth wall” effect on me.
That “Rather pathetic, yes?” line felt as if the writer was addressing the reader. It created a small shock to me, reading it–if it was intentional it is very “meta”.
Finally, my favorite point was the explanation for the dynamic of the relationship between the two men. Wickham felt like the “poor relative” and even though done without real malice I can fully imagine Darcy as the one who always instructs this and that. (I’m an older sister and I know the trap.) Good intentions don’t make the hurt any less and if one has a weak character like Wickham…
I always wondered what was Darcy’s flaw (in his opinion) because he appears so tolerant towards Wickham after Ramsgate… so this is a fine explanation. Deep down he knows he has a part in forming the monster called Wickham, he’s not only a victim but more.
So, thank you for this. I’m looking forward to Part III!
Author
Thank you so much for all your thoughtful comments, Alexandra! You’re right about the fourth wall. I was having way too much fun with that, but it doesn’t really fit the story. One of the things I’ve rediscovered about posting serial pieces is that I’m missing out on the chance to make some necessary cuts as I move along. Maybe one day, when I finally finish this story, I’ll go back and prune to make the story itself stronger. In the meantime, I’m having a lot of fun writing melodrama and meta commentary! Do hope you are having a lovely start to November!
Christina!! I had no idea you were posting again. Lucky for me I saw this week’s schedule for AV and realized you must be.
What an intriguing story. I’m really enjoying it. I loved that Elizabeth had enough sitting still and her contrariness made her act.
Author
Hi, Gina! Thanks so much for stopping by to read. I’m posting sporadically — and not really at all on Facebook. (I’ve pretty much given up FB to save time and sanity, so if you ever want to contact me, feel free to reach out via email. I’m so old school! :-D) Anyway, thanks gain for reading! It’s been fun posting a serial story again. Haven’t done it in a long time! But it’s not easy…and I would definitely go back and make some edits if this were a standalone story. I’m grateful to AV for the opportunity to reacquaint myself with this process! Do hope you and yours are doing well!